Let the Skyfall
by SfumatoSoup
Summary: Taking place directly after the majority of the dialogue between Silva and Bond in that first scene with all the flirtatious banter and straying off canon into what should have happened. Bond/Silva slash


**Let The Skyfall**

LET THE SKYFALL

Pairing: Silva/Bond

Taking place directly after the majority of the dialogue between Silva and Bond and straying off canon into what should have happened.

Warning: NC-17, Angsty, porn. Death. Not really dub-con, not really. They both want each other P's. Shutup. Silva's totally smitten in that I-also-want-you-dead kind of way. It's glorious.

—-

Silva appreciatively sucked in a breath and smiled delightedly as he took in his stunning captive and that impeccably sleek Tom Ford that fit in all the right places over that toned and elegant physique.

Tracing a finger provocatively under 007's masculine jawline, he stroked just beneath the jut of the man's adams apple before pushing open the collar, exposing the unmarred shoulder of the other side, the shirt already loosed where he had casually flicked open the button.

Feeling the warmth beneath his hand and the other man's quickening pulse sent a flare of heat coursing downward. He suppressed a thrilled shiver.

How could he be bothered to disguise his admiration? He'd taken a fancy to the younger Agent years ago, chances like this were rare and Silva was an opportunist.

"What's your regulation training for this?" Silva purred as his hands slid up Bond's legs with obvious intent.

"Well, first time for everything, hmm?"

"What makes you think it's my first time?" Bond countered smoothly, characteristically cool and coy as ever.

Ah, what a marvelous surprise! Clearly the game was being challenged, and Silva was more than game to quit playing it and get down to business.

Literally.

His heart beat a little quicker and he smiled with mild, patient indulgence, because that was certainly an invitation written in the heated glint of those impossibly clear blue eyes that gazed up at him from lowered lashes.

"Go," he commanded quietly, dismissing his body guards without so much as a glance in their direction, fixated as he was on the man before him.

His men left as ordered and as the door shut behind them with an audible click echoing through the open chamber, Bond relaxed and smirked with an air of lazy confidence, letting his legs hang open casually.

Time slowed and cloaked them within it's heightened charge of palpable, and undeniably raw, sexual tension, like a short circuiting bolt of electricity, both men more than proximally aware of the other.

Everything else was inconsequential periphery and to Silva, this…

This was what he had been wanting for _so long_.

M's betrayal had burned a hole right through him and when, shattered with agonizing, ceaseless days of pain, bleeding and destroyed from the inside out on the cold floor of his captivity, alone and a thousand miles and poles apart from anything resembling liberation, when his worlds had collided and abandoned him to endless days of dark and searing rage, he had only the single remaining hope of vengeance to carry him through.

When M had similarly betrayed Bond, it fanned the flames of his single minded desire to seek and destroy MI-6. Of course, he had better intel than Whitehall, and knew of Bond's continued existence, that beautiful, resilient bastard. In a brilliant stroke of genius he had figured out how to obtain the Agent. He sent Sévérine to lure 007 to him and bring him within arms length for the first time in many, many years. And my God, the man was as stunning and damaged and perfect as he had ever been.

And, James Bond, 007, that inimitable force that he'd desired for so long, was, right here and now, in this moment, his.

It was like angels singing glory from on high.

Only the cocksure grin on Bond's face pulled him from his illusory musings and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Silva, unabashedly flushed with arousal, questioned his upper-hand at the mercy of such uninhibited permission.

Could he have this man? Possess him? Use him? Fill the void within and take down the world with Bond at his side?

Perhaps.

Then, he remembered just who he was dealing with and grinned back ferally.

It took barely a beat before Bond's eyes widened almost imperceptibly with a dawning sort of clarity as he recognized the direction this was spiraling, but Silva was phenomenally observant and noted this with calm satisfaction.

"Ah, my pet, so intuitive," he praised, carefully releasing another shirt button.

Bond watched him with a considering expression.

Before he knew what he was doing, Silva reflexively reached up to stroke that ruggedly chiseled, handsome face in a burst of sudden, ineffable affection, but aborted the movement mid-air, bringing his hand back down to Bond's thigh and sighed, fond, but guarded as he circled his thumb against the toned muscle.

The agent shivered, inhaling sharply through his nose as Silva smoothed his thumb upward along the inner seam barely avoiding the prominent bulge in the center before bringing it back down to safer territory.

"I imagine you're unaccustomed to awaiting consent, rat eats rat, as you say," Bond challenged, "But I am inclined to point out that you're stalling."

Silva had, to some extent, preemptively armoured himself for the possibility that the captive Agent might play receptive from a strategic angle if he perceived there was a sliver of an opportunity to escape containment. Bond was, to some degree notorious for using his sex appeal as arsenal. Only, the Agent was also, clearly, no idiot. Both men were acutely aware that from a tactical perspective, in this scenario, Silva was at an advantage.

A lovely advantage.

Silva huffed a laugh, delighted at his shiny, new plaything, "On the contrary, 007, I am a gentleman. But… I am also a thief. And I take what I can. Rat eats rat, my dear. Be eaten or…" Silva shifted direction, briefly wetting his lips that had gone dry with want. Piercing his prey with a knowing look, he appraised the obvious pull of fabric at Bond's groin, "your body speaks more fluently than your tongue."

Silva eased open another button of the man's shirt, skimming along the skin beneath with a single fingernail.

"I've been reliably informed my tongue is fluent in a variety of ways," Bond replied in a dead-pan.

"Naughty," Silva chastised, "Your offer is most charitable and you do seem so keen to demonstrate. But, you are my guest, and I am an exemplary host."

Leaning in, he inhaled the fragrant and heady aroma of clean sweat and cologne, pressing his nose and lips just behind the Agent's ear as he plucked open yet another button, "Also, my dear, I have waited my turn to serve you for far, far too long," Silva explained shamelessly.

"Your service is inexcusably slow."

"So eager," the ex-agent chuckled darkly, "So impatient, did Mummy never teach you that good things come to those who wait…oh, but my goodness," Silva paused, theatrically pressing a hand tragically over his heart, "but alas, Skyfall had momentarily slipped my mind, do forgive."

Bond schooled his features into a cold scowl, "Your Mother must have failed to teach you manners. Bad form, mid-seduction."

Silva feigned an affronted look, "Bad form to insult one's mother. I'll have you know she was…well if I had known her well, much like our own dear M, I am sure she was a veritable saint."

"How Oedipal to talk of one's Mother, when they're bursting the seems of their trousers," Bond pressed on, "and inconsiderate."

Leaning forward with a predatory gleam sparkling in his dark eyes, Silva licked a clean stripe down the skin of that enticing neck, "But…indeed," he whispered, wet lips against the agent's ear, "Your reasoning, after all, is staggeringly…" he darted a tongue inside the ridge and nipped the lobe, "…pristine. Why prolong the inevitable."

Without hesitation, he moved his hands up and outward clutching the man's hips tightly, yanking him forward in his chair. The cold metal of the handcuffs cut into Bond's wrists but his gasp was cut short as he was grasped from behind the neck and pulled into a searing kiss.

At the onslaught of those warm, pliant lips, Bond found himself willingly responsive, twisting his tongue into the other man's mouth and running it experimentally along those cool, too perfect teeth, feeling almost bereft a moment later as Silva pulled away, landing a teasing nip on Bond's swollen lower lip.

"Good. So…very…good," the man chuckled, smoothing a hand down his blonde locks as he knelt between Bond's open legs.

Releasing the remaining buttons, Silva spread open the man's shirt and leaned in to hungrily explore the bared skin. Pressing an open mouthed kiss to the scar, he laved the mottled tissue gently with his tongue before sweeping upward to put a marking bite at the juncture between neck and collar bone. Bond compliantly tipped his head backward, his eyes slitting with pleasure, as Silva's hands worshipfully skimmed the ridges of those perfectly defined abdominal muscles.

Once again, he latched his lips to those of the Agent's, forcibly seeking entry, Bond moaning as their tongues collided, both wrestling for dominance.

He hid his amusement as he let himself be owned by the other man. James Bond would probably be a complete toppy bastard in bed, too.

Silva pulled away just enough to press his smile against the other man's lips nuzzling against his bristly chin as he stroked a hand across Bond's short, soft hair, "We can eat everyone else together," he groaned into his neck.

Bond refrained from responding as Silva trailed feather light kisses down across his chest, proceeding to lick exploratively around the navel before delving inward with the hot, wet press of his tongue. Bond moaned breathlessly, uninhibitedly bucking forward, seeking friction against his neglected, straining erection trapped beneath his fabulously clinging, perfectly tailored trousers.

Silva had to pause a moment to collect himself and adjust his own insistent arousal, giving himself a single rub through the material for temporary relief.

Without hesitation he bent down and encased the head of the other man's cock in the heat of his mouth, exhaling through the trousers.

Bond rolled his hips forward, the metal cuffs clanking loudly against the back of the chair, "Shit," he muttered.

"Tut tut," Silva scolded with a tap on his knee while massaging the trapped member, "such a foul tongue, darling. Relax," he exhaled, "You need to relax."

Silva, single handedly released him from his confines and took him nearly, completely down.

With a strangled moan, Bond watched as the other man masterfully pleasured him, and he, in response, pushed forward in rhythm, agonizing need twisting up from within, desperately seeking completion.

"Fuck," he swore, as the man's tongue swirled against the sensitive spot beneath the head.

Silva pulled back, letting the cock bounce from his mouth with a wet smack against the man's stomach.

"That," he grinned promisingly, "can be arranged, but some other time."

Silva ached with a twinge of momentary regret as he lavished the other man with the full extent of his technique, he would have loved to put aside his agenda for a day to bed the man and show him the full extent of his passion, slowly and methodically, but, time was ticking.

He swallowed Bond down once more, and with maddening precision and the slowest pace imaginable, drew the Agent's orgasm from him. Bond shuddered, as his release came to peak, explosive and blinding white behind his eyes.

There were several moments where the world was a fuzzy, fragmented thing and nothing made any sense whatsoever.

As he came to, with heavy lidded eyes, and the sound of blood rushing through his skull, Bond inhaled deeply, regaining his composure. Silva, had at some point apparently tugged himself to release and was just finishing fastening his trousers. Bond watched with a disassociated fascination as the other man licked away the traces of his semen from his puffy, pink lips, looking far too pleased with himself as he wiped his fingers clean on a handkerchief.

Silva cleared his throat and smiled pleasantly down at his captive and Bond felt himself flush in a moment of uncharacteristic self-consciousness as he noted his wet, flaccid cock still on display for all the world.

"Well, this has certainly been a pleasurable experience, one I do hope can be repeated at some juncture. But, alas," he sighed with an air of lazy satisfaction, as he considerately tucked Bond away, wistfully closing up his trousers with a friendly farewell pat, "there are other, more pressing matters at hand that must be seen to."

There would be some time to waste before MI-6 busted up the party to take him into custody. He smiled as he imagined where the man might be keeping the radio.

Silva only needed Bond to come to the right decision before the end.

That's all that counted.

He smiled as the helicopters descended.

—-

'You see what comes of all this running around Mr. Bond? All this jumping and fighting. It's exhausting," he had said with a fond look of exasperation, "Relax, you need to relax,' when Bond closed his eyes, the words would always ring through his head. Those dark eyes piercing through him like a cleaver through the heart in the darkness before being consumed by the black, icy water.

The last James Bond would ever see of Raoul Silva, was the look of mixed betrayal and tired acceptance as he turned to face him, knife wedged between his shoulder blades.

"Last rat standing," he uttered brokenly before collapsing to the ground.

This is the end  
Hold your breath and count to ten  
Feel the earth move and then  
Hear my heart burst again  
For this is the end

Bond turned away from the wreckage of Skyfall to live to die another day.

—-

ahhhhh Silva feels are killing me.

(sobs)


End file.
